


Death and the Curse were in our Cup

by cuppatea4u



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 09:03:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3890434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuppatea4u/pseuds/cuppatea4u
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone has said that "true friendship comes when the silence between two people is comfortable.” <br/>but when has the silence of death ever been comfortable…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after season/series 1 and before season/series 2

 

 

Prelude

 

     His healed boots descended upon the marble surface like the second hand on a clock, the steady rhythm beating upon his breast. A clock that continued on even when there were those who could not. It did not matter to him of its faithfulness, but only showed him how mortal, how easily ones life can be snuffed out. As of late the ticking sound mocked him in the waking hours and dragged on in the slumbering ones. Counting down what? till all this business would end? in life or in death, he couldn't help but wonder. His steady steps pounded in his skull making the already boisterous sounds ache throughout his head all the way down to his booted feet. Nerves fraying like strips of linen washed too much. He felt rubbed raw, dragged down under by the weight of his position. Yet his sword kept up the beat, clinking across his thigh, and he wondered not for the first time whose sword he would finally die from? For was that not what every musketeer dreamed they would get, an honorable death? Still his boots traveled along the smooth surface without his wandering thoughts to deter him from his true goal.

     He would not waste away like some as of late, waiting for the final seconds to shut the breath from ones body. He would not dry up, shriveling into nothing if he could help it…and wasn't that the true voice of his disquiet? Having that control, that all men thought they possessed, be snatched from you like a prayer in the night? That was truly frightening just to ponder on. Perspiration dotted his brow now as he pulled up to the solid doors. Strength that was so sure a minute ago leaving him, making his strong stride falter on the last step.

     He berated himself. He was to appear sturdy, immovable especially when the heaviness of the hour seemed to crush him. Taking a deep breath and running a hand through his thinning hair, he straightened his shoulders and put the worries that plagued him to the back of his mind. He was the captain of the musketeers and the King sought his counsel…Treville would not be moved from that, he would have control of that, he thought as he entered the room.

 

     "What news, Captain?" King Louis declared into the echoed halls of the chamber.

 

     The word "captain" floated thru Treville's mind, mocking him with its whispers of leadership…he hated this daily duty of his, yet was reminded of soft words that were spoken to him at another trying time… _we're soldiers captain. we follow our orders no matter where they lead…even to death..._. Swallowing tightly and clutching his hat to his chest he bowed low and replied, "the sickness has taken nine more, Your Majesty" taking one more deep breath in thru his nose and looking up, he breathed out, "including three of Your Majesty's Musketeers".

 

     A sharp intake of breath reverberated in the chamber so soft Treville almost missed it, but as his eyes met the queens, he took in the pale skin and wide eyes till softly she spoke, "and who might they be, Captain".

 

     Out of the corner of his eye, Treville did not miss the way the Cardinal wet his lips in anticipation of said answer and it suddenly made him sick to gaze upon such single mindedness even in these troubling times. That one would hold onto his hatred in the face of death, made his cheeks burn.  Pushing down his nausea to fuel his anger he leveled his stare upon the Cardinal. 

"who indeed", slipped past his lips on no more than a puff of sound, as he pierced his eyes upon the Cardinals arrogant stare.

 

     "Captain?", Treville's head turned back to the King, who was trying so valiantly to remain still even if his hands were rubbing raw the ends of his arm rest. Treville next looked to the queen, eyes as wide as saucers, hands stretched across her expanding stomach and lips parted to prevent whatever names he himself would share.  And as he saw both of there pleading eyes and nervous hands his anger was snuffed out to fly away like smoke from a candle.

 

     "Captain", the King spoke again, "what say you?"

 

     Treville once again took a deep breath, closed his eyes and with a heavy heart opened them and spoke.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_three weeks earlier…_

 

"Get him!"

     D'Artagnan was a fool. He knew his pride would get him in trouble someday, he just didn't know when that day would rear its ugly head.  So he surmised, it was as good a day as any…perhaps maybe after this he would start thinking first before running his mouth, or better yet just acknowledging he had a problem had its merits, no? It didn't help him much as he held onto his horse with a white knuckled grip to race across the open field. His back hurt, his legs burned and he certainly didn't want to even think about the other parts of him that was were screaming for relief. 

     He flew across the grass, chunks of earth flying about him, creating a sort of abstract to the picturesque landscape. Hair whipping past his cheek, heart pounding but with the tree line is sight. 

     And why had he come up with this madness? because he wanted to be great at something, something that was not already taken by his friends. Athos was clearly the best swordsman in the garrison. Porthos had brute strength that could toss a wild turkey in the air with his pinky, and Aramis didn't miss a single shot…ever. D'Artagnan was in a state of melancholy over this one afternoon which put into his mind things that he was good at. No one knew he was a fine milker of cows or able to build a fence within a day…all fine qualities for farming to be sure, but farming was no longer his profession. Musketeer business was what he was after, and while pondering his merits over breakfast this morning he announced to all who were in attendance, mostly being Porthos, that he was by far the best rider out of the four of them.

     So, needless to say, and on much reluctance by Porthos,  he had concocted this ridiculous plan to show them all that he was the most brilliant horse rider. Even if in doing so left his so called "brilliance" back at the garrison hanging around with the stable boy, mucking up the stalls. After waking up Athos, which was a particularly trying exercise in patience, and finding Aramis among the street venders, he led his band of brothers to the stables and out into a stretch of land in the country to prove his mettle to the others. 

     And now he felt ridiculous. He realized his blunder when the others were not even trying, even as he pushed himself to the limit to show them he had what it took to be the best horse rider out of the musketeers. He glanced behind him to see their shapes as mere dots on the landscape. D'Artagnan frowned and pushed harder to make it to the goal, for he could still hear their jeers from even this distance. 

 

     "Please don't leave us behind D'Artagnan, I fear we will never catch up…" Aramis declared with false heartache, one hand openly splayed about his breast, lazily leading his mount across the field. It was a beautiful sunny day, and Aramis had no intention of exerting any energy to enjoy it. 

     "His horses flanks are too much for my solid frame, they ride with the speed of…" Porthos frowned at his own sentence and turned his questioning gaze across to Aramis where the thespian of the group needed no more prompt, "…a thousand white horses! He has out ridden us all! This is certainly a travesty upon my person!"

     Athos turned up a corner of his lips at the last statement, "I'll drink to that," he casually replied, making Porthos snort and Aramis to narrow his eyes. 

     "You would drink to that, wouldn't you." Aramis countered to Athos glib reply. "When I'm on my death bed pleading for a drink, you would be there to comfort me in my time of need, no doubt." 

     "You mean as you're in someone else's bed," Porthos snickered.

     "Porthos, my friend you wound me with your words," heaving a great sign and looking up into the heavens, he continued "And to think I liked you the most," kicking his horse, he trotted just ahead of them.

     Athos and Porthos shared a look. Huffing a silent laugh through his nose, Athos faced forward again, "One would think you to have just insulted him."

     "Nah, I just wanted some quiet for a bit." extending his voice Porthos continued, "Can't enjoy the day when you have an unwelcome chirping bird on your shoulder."

     A muttered, "I heard that," came from the front followed shortly by a sing song whistle, which only proved to widen Porthos' smile.

     Athos calmly removed a stray piece of lint from his saddle, "one must really tell our stalwart friend he had no need to display this kind of…"

     "bravado"

     "activity" 

     Stroking his beard once, Athos continued, "I was going to say foolishness, but one is entitled to his own opinions, of course." The others chuckled at that. Aramis swiveled his body round to reply when the calm mood was startled with a bang. Snapping his head back around, "that sounded like musket fire."

     Another such blast sounded which had D'Artagnan's horse whinny in response and prompted the three to move as one, racing across the wet earth to gather round by their forth.

 ***

     Sensing the others approach, D'Artagnan dragged a hand to remove his sweaty hair from off his face and pointed toward the east tree line, "It came from over there."

     "Then we best investigate", replied Athos as he turned his mount to cautiously follow the disturbance. Aramis trotted up besides D'Artagnan, removing his musket from the scabbard, eyes trained ahead,  "I guess your talents also include finding adventure where there once was none?" a small smirk formed at the corner of his mouth being the only giveaway to the humor he felt.

     Porthos slapped the back of Aramis with a burly hand, "I thought thats what we brought you along for."

     "Porthos, please," fixing his hat that had been made askew from the friendly slap, "I make my own adventure," for which D'Artagnan had only a snort in response as he followed Porthos and the rest of them into the trees.   

 

**************************************************

 

_The large ornate doors opened with barely a sound bringing forth the visitor into the chamber, a visitor that had power to create joy in some and vast displeasure in others._

 

     "Cardinal!" King Louis exclaimed as the Cardinal entered with a sweep of his long robe, to see the King and Queen sitting on their plush thrones, awaiting the completion of the artist and his palette, "Anne and I were just discussing baby names…for a girl of course."

     "Of course," bowing low, "for if its a boy can I assume the name will be Louis? Named after his father I'm sure…I would hate to see such a royal child named something…less befitting his stature, wouldn't you say my Queen?"

     The Queens sweet smile did not leave her face as much as the Cardinal's prodding had intended it to do so, instead she raised one delicate eyebrow at the veiled suggestion and squeezed the Kings hand.

     "Whatever are you talking about, Cardinal," letting the brilliance of his smile droop slightly in the face of his confusion. 

      "My apologies for any confusion, Your Majesty," giving a bow to rectify his statement,  "I merely wished to present my gift to the future heir that shall grace these halls in a matter of months." He stepped forward, rolling back the arm of his robe to reveal a long thin box. 

      "Oh how delightful, Cardinal, " grasping the box that was handed to him and passing it to the Queen. The Queen clutched the item, turning it over. It was a bit heavy but not horribly so, confirming her thoughts regarding what lay within and having an inkling of why such a gift would be given from the Cardinal.

     "Shall we open it, now?" King Louis questioned with a glance at the Cardinal, fingers twitching in nervous excitement.

     "Why of course Your Majesty," spreading his arms out wide, his cloak sweeping about him, the ends stilling on the floor like a pool of black blood,  "There really is no better time to open it then with both of you here to do it together."

      With that the Queen gave a little inward sigh and took the lid off the box. Inside lay a small rapier incased in its scabbard with the flour de liz etched into the leather. Pulling it gently from its case to instantly have the light of the room reflected off its surface. 

     "This is marvelous, Cardinal. Its quite well crafted I'm sure, our son will learn to be a master with this…is it very sharp?" King Louis inched his fingers closer to touch the blade resting in the Queen's lap. 

     Anne bit down on the inside of her cheek and let the rapier slide back in its case with an audible snap, "I should think that such a weapon will not be used, Your Majesty, until our child is able to handle it with the grace that is needed to wield it." She softened the blow with a sweet smile.

     "Oh, of course and when he does he will…"

     "No doubt," interrupted the Cardinal, "your child will know his way around a blade in time, an excellent fighter fit for the musketeers I imagine, given the many talented men that shall enter his path," the Cardinal eyes latched onto the Queen's, while raising a challenging eyebrow. 

      The Queen's smile only grew, "I am sure Cardinal, that our child will learn to defend himself, but who better to teach than his father, the King," squeezing her husbands hand earned her another brilliant smile from him which promoted her to continue, "Thank you Cardinal for your generosity regarding the future birth of our child. I know it pleases you to finally have an heir for the throne as much as it pleases the King and I." 

     "Nothing pleases me more, Your Majesty, than to see that peace will continue in France."

      "Of that I have no doubt," straightening in her chair and leveling her own stare, she went in for the coups de grâce, "your loyalty to France is something to desire in the hearts of all men." 

      The King, still smiling, looked from the Cardinal to his Queen and back again, tiring quickly of all this idle talk that seemed to him to make no sense at all. Clasping his hands together in excitement he spoke, "Would you like to hear the names, Cardinal?"

 

**************************************************

 

     The overgrowth was thick, shading the bright sun and blocking out any visibility it provided, which coincidentally put the four musketeers on alert. Cries in the distance of one who has come upon a great distress, greeted their ears. Dismounting, they cautiously stepped forward, hands on hilts of swords, Aramis blowing on the smoking wick of his musket, till at last the foliage opened up into a small but sunny clearing. The rays of light beat upon their cheeks and strengthened their hearts, bringing more resolve to their once wary steps. 

     This strange oasis had more questions than answers, for it did not represent the massacre they were envisioning. It was a mess for sure, but not of anything…human. Churned up dirt and pieces of leafy vegetation with rotting vegetables and smashed up roots, "some sorta garden?",  Athos heard Porthos mumble as he glanced around at the carnage.  Staring at some sort of squash…thing, Athos's gaze was interrupted as the door of the dwelling, that strangely resembled a beaver dam, opened and an elderly man bounded out with more energy than his appearance would give him credit for. 

 

     "Get them! Get them! They are destroying everything!" he was a little man, beard down to his navel with a few wisps of hair still clinging to life on his head. Dressed as a farmer with boots decorated in mud and breaches none the cleaner, arm still clutching a smoking musket. 

     "Monsieur, please calm yourself and explain," Athos pressed a hand to the man's chest while using the other to snatch the firearm away,  "for we see none here."

 

     "How could you miss them! Their feathers are everywhere, munching on my best creations!" raged the little man, cheeks reddening, arms flailing, and beard swishing like a horse tail. 

 

     Porthos drew his brows together and turned to whisper to Aramis besides him, "feathers?"

 

     Athos heaved an inward sign and calmly asked the man to explain himself, starting from the beginning…

**********

     "Chickens, Captain," D'Artagnan was always amazed at how well Athos had a knack of saying the most droll things in a way that made it sound as if it was a very crucial matter.

      "Chickens?" this had the captain put down the paper he had been reading to stare quizzically at one of his finest musketeers. The four of them had been called to Treville's office concerning an impromptu horse race, not...

     "Wild chickens to be precise." 

     "Well I wouldn't call them wild…" interrupted Aramis with a tilt of his head. Athos with a small twitch of his lips posed the question in the form of a statement, "possibly," he drawled "from a neighboring farm." Which had Aramis nodding his head in thanks.  Containing his mirth, Athos clasped his hands behind his back, "The gentleman had been cultivating quite an array of spices and herbs used in the helping of counteracting the dull tastes of certain foods."

     "I see…and the…wild chickens were…"

     "Eating his best efforts to do so, they were" Porthos joined in.

     "Said gentleman, was quite distraught over the disappearing spices that he set a trap in the hopes of catching the…"

     "burglars, I'd say," chimed in Aramis.

     "burglars, which," Athos continued, "involved loaded muskets and string."

     "String?"

     Aramis swept his hat off his head to press it upon his breast, "no doubt he was quite the ingenious little fellow."

     "old man out of his mind more like," mumbled D'Artagnan, for which he got a stern gaze from his Captain. Straitening his stature and clearing his throat earned him a soft snort from Porthos and a twinkling smile from Aramis, prompting the latter to lean over.  

      "Told you," Aramis whispered with a wink, "adventure." 

     D'Artagnan merely rolled his eyes.

      "Go," Treville spoke, glancing once more at the papers strewn across the worn surface of his desk, "Serge has asked for some help with tonights meal preparations, and I know just the four for such a," letting his mustache twitch briefly at the corners," a…mission of vital importance".

 

D'Artagnan followed the rest of his friends out, not too keen on the sentence they had been given yet a smile lit his face as he heard Porthos grumble about Serge, _"never needin' no help before."_  

 

**************************************************

 


	3. Chapter 3

Flea had always loved mornings. 

   Now that was not to say that she was awake often enough to enjoy them, preferring to remain watchful incase the darkness of night brought out the more desperate side of people. She knew times were hard and most did not want to do the things they would do, so she would remain awake till all was relatively quite and sleep till noon.

   There were those rare times, though. When her nights were plagued with worries that left her gut churning, watching the candles sluggishly melt onto her wooden stool cooling and hardening as the hours pressed upon her, till the first pink rays of sun cleared her head and eased her heart. That was when she would get up, leave the worries to the night and embrace the newness of the day. It was new beginnings, she supposed, that left her willing to stand in the early rays of dawn. It brought with it a peace, a sense of calm that wasn't always present within her as she battled the many issues of living in the Court. 

   And it was quiet. 

   Not many people were usually out at this time of day, still getting their loved ones up, or still trying to contain that last few hours of sleep, that she knew for some were the only peace they had in their lives. 

   For her she just enjoyed walking down the street, seeing the beggars stir with little to no blankets, watching the windows open with a soft glow that soon was outweigh by the warmth of the sun. Sidestepping puddles where light reflected off the surface, seeing stray dogs lapping up the fresh dew of morning. Not all was pleasant to her, but it was her home and she loved the strength of character she found in these people, to continue on even when things were dire. 

   A small smile twitched at the edge of her lips, remembering Porthos and their times strolling down the streets like this. Porthos was a morning man through and through, always waking her to get the most out of the day before it was gone. But now he was gone, and maybe just maybe that was another reason she liked mornings…

   She stopped at a corner and leaned against the wall enjoying the warmth in this little pocket of light. Most of the Court was shrouded in darkness, but it had its open spots that brought a delight to her spirit. Her bedroom window opened up right outside such a spot and right here was the most open one of all, even though surrounding it was made even darker for the shadows that bounced off the brightness. And as she tilted her head she saw two people a little ways off under a fabric archway. They appeared to be way to awake to have been just getting up and were in what looked like a heated albeit hushed argument. She quietly stepped around the corner to keep out of sight and let her eyes adjust back to the dim lighting. Both had too many layers on to be recognized which is what made them more suspicious. People entering her home that did not live here always thought that concealing your identity made you look like you belonged, which in turn was the opposite. People knew each other, knew their "masks" of deception, but never completely covered unless threatened by the outside world. The two men exchanged something, then the one pivoted quickly on their heal and was gone leaving the other to stand with their arms on their hips and slowly shake their downward head.

   She would keep track of this show in her mind and see what it was all about in due time, but for now the rest of the morning awaited her.

 

**************************************************** 

 

   It never ceased to amaze Porthos the commanding presence Treville presented each and every time he saw him and this day was proving to be no less different. Porthos watched the Captain as he stood at the top of the staircase looking out over his men. His arms were bent, with elbows resting on the railing, one hand casually cupping his chin and running his fingers over his mustache. It wasn't just his Captains posture, that gave Porthos heed, rather is was his steady gaze as he looked at each musketeer that trained below. That was what drew Porthos to Treville more than anything. He was regarded and cared for, not just as a group but as an individual, someone who the Captain cared for as a soldier, as a friend and sometimes, Porthos felt, as even a son. He had personally, like all the others, been on the receiving end of Treville's ire, but it was in those situations that he gained the most insight into himself, about how to cast off the old and put on the new. He had not come from the best of circumstances and had needed a bit of "rounding out" as it were, but this Captain, the one he looked up to and followed had taken the time not only to work with him, but had encouraged others to do likewise.

   Porthos heard a sharp yell by D'Artagnan followed by a chuckle from Aramis then noticed the slight upturn of Treville's mouth and the undignified snort he could hear from where he sat below.

    Of course having a sense of humor was also needed to be a good Captain. 

   Porthos grinned.

   Treville deliberately stood up and made his way to the stairs. The training in the courtyard slowly softened till all had stopped to stand at formation, awaiting their duties of the day. Porthos eased himself into the mass in-between Athos and Aramis, and inwardly grinned again. Treville seemed to command his men with so little effort, but he knew from experience, there was nothing little about it.

   "The duties of the day are as follows…" 

   Porthos let the crisp commanding tone soothe his troubled mind like a welcoming balm. He mentally shook his head to somehow rid himself of the thoughts that plagued his waking moments as of late, though the matter seemed to have nestled deep within his heart. There was something amiss between his friends. A poorly constructed thread had come undone, opening up a miniature tear that had now begun to fray around the edges. Porthos has no idea what caused it, but knew it was slowly unraveling, creating a wider hole the more it was pulled. He does not think it was ever intentional, but it has not been mended well and so continues its ongoing course. He wonders if there will be a time when it is just too large to fix, and that is the why he feels restless. His thoughts snap back to attention at the sound of his name. _For another time…_

   "…and Porthos," Porthos meets the eyes of Treville, "you will have the second shift at the Palace. Pascal, you will…" Treville continues but Porthos shoulders have already sagged as he purses his lips in annoyance. _Great_ , he inwardly mutters, right through lunchtime. He liked lunch, and always got, what did Athos call it…"peckish", when he didn't get to abide in that meal.

   Aramis, he can tell, has latched onto the reason of his discomfort like a thorny bramble bush, already visibly twitching beside him. Porthos sighed, there really was no stopping Aramis when he got that whiff of mischief roused up inside him. Though he let out a soft growl to show his displeasure, inwardly he was pleased that the rift he was worried about was not strong enough to tear them completely apart.

   Aramis deftly removes his hat from his head and presses it upon his breast in a solemn gesture. Giving a little bow, he grasps Porthos shoulder in a show of sympathy. Porthos knows its anything but. Aramis snaps up and with a twinkle in his eye acknowledges the distress Porthos has found himself in.

   "Porthos my friend, I know this duty will not be pleasant, as the middle of the day is something to be as cherished as a grieving widow. But fear not, tonight you shall have feasts!"

   Porthos looks alarmed for a moment, "you cooking?"

   "No, no. Sadly that talent has left me…"

    "For the best I'm sure" mutters Athos.

   D'Artagnan lets out a small snicker behind them as Porthos catches a twitch of movement around Athos mouth. Aramis could cook when pressed but not exactly to quality standards. Porthos sighs as the memory of the last time drifts across his mind, causing him to miss the beginning of he's sure a heart wrenching epitaph.

   …"quail shall rain from the heavens to feed your sensitive, uh, time frame. You shall eat in plenty and be satisfied. No longer will you crave the pleasant happenings of…"

   "Aramis," a voice interrupts, pausing the momentum of what was to be a more elaborate proclamation. Aramis glances up at his Captain. "If you're done…" Treville raises an eyebrow with the patience of one who is accustom to such antics. Aramis twirls his hat between his hands to then set it atop his head and nods once with a cheeky grin as Treville continues, "Now, I've also called you here today to tell you that the King and Queen will be hosting a ball, in honor of the future birth of the heir to France. His Majesty has requested most of you to be in attendance around the Palace grounds to ensure the safety of its occupants. The following will be stationed around the Palace for the festivities while the rest of you will stay on at the garrison ."

    And as Treville says the last of the names who are going, Porthos is pleased to realize all four of them were going to the ball. He smiles, ready to voice this good fortune till a soft sharp intake of breath wisps by his ears. He was still debating on it just being a small gust of wind, till his eyes catch a sliver of expression pass across Aramis's face. Turning his head slightly to get a better look proved in vain as it was already gone, and so, he noted, was the easy posture of one who has not a care in the world. Instead, a stiff back and squared off shoulders has taken its place like the weight of his friends thoughts was much to heavy to bear. The secret glances Athos directs at Aramis, tells Porthos that if he were a betting man, which he is, that he would place all of his meager belongings on the fact that whatever tear had cropped up between his friends, Aramis was at the center and Athos knew about it. Porthos faced forward again, disheartened and a tad jealous of not being in the know. They were the inseparables, as people said but right now he felt separated. Something was going on with Aramis, but he would have to bide his time for now.  Pursing his lips and giving himself an internal nod, he would, without a doubt, be opening up that discussion one day…soon.

   Treville finished rounding out the duties and called for them to be dismissed.

   D'Artagnan behind them, excited about the ball and oblivious to the undercurrents amongst his friends, grasped Aramis' shoulders with both hands making Aramis start slightly, and Porthos inwardly frown. But his friends had always counted on him to be their solid rock even in times of trouble and Treville had nurtured that within him. His Captain had taken care to show Porthos just how much depended on his physical strength as well as his strength of character. He would not disappoint.

   Turning to his friends with a slightly heavy heart but a determined set to his jaw, "So," he grinned with forced mirth, "whose here's ready for some guard duty?"

**************************************************** 

**Author's Note:**

> "True friendship comes when the silence between two people is comfortable" is from D.T. Gentry


End file.
